


Flash Point

by Superficial



Series: Ashes to Ashes [2]
Category: Vermintide, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: F/M, Grimdark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superficial/pseuds/Superficial
Summary: "Sienna Fuegonasus is a weapon, not a woman, and it would behoove you to remember her as such."Sigmar’s hand of fate works in mysterious ways—the dark Gods whisper in a Battle Wizard’s ear. Some consequences are best left unsaid; and for a bounty hunter, all roads lead to death.





	Flash Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shaydh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaydh/gifts).



> A direct sequel to "Breaking Point."
> 
> Thanks to Breezytealy and Sabertooth for beta-ing this monster.

**I. TALABHEIM**

The Threeapples Inn is a warm, inviting place, bustling with travelers and newcomers who have passed the rigorous entrance into Talabheim—traversing the Wizards’ Way and through the gates of the Taalagad Garrison. It would not be the first time Victor Saltzpyre would seek entrance into the city, and the Dogfaces there are familiar enough with his patronage that he needed to do little more than state his name. Despite his renunciation of the Order, the former Witch Hunter was not foolish enough to sacrifice the privileges of his Brotherhood.

It is there, after three weeks of stay, collecting his bounty in blood money, does the inn’s owner, a Halfing by the name of Wanda Threeapples, present him a letter with his meal.

“Read it an’ buy me a round of ale downstairs,” she tells him, pressing the sealed envelope into his hand, the wax stamp bearing the sign of the hammer, and his lips tighten. “The sender wishes to remain anonymous, an’ I don’t fancy gettin’ involved in Witch Hunter business.”

She leaves with the sharp snap of the door to his room closing, and he breaks the seal open with his thumbnail, his good eye narrowing as he skimmed the neat, flowing penmanship:

_I trust this finds you well. I’ve information that might help you on your journey._

_I’ve met a man by the name of Gereon von Müller making his way up from Altdorf to his homeland of Kislev. He’s a widower of great wealth and influence—a father to three daughters and two sons—and also a man scorned. Rumor has it he recently had a failed meeting with Thyrus Gormann at the Bright College, hoping to employ a battle wizard to protect his home in these troubled times and the Magister refused. Unusual considering the Order’s preferred way of making their coin. I suspect he’ll be passing through Talabheim by the time this letter reaches you. See if you can squeeze any information out of him._

_Sferza Zerndorff’s blood is in the swamp, and your trail is clear. You’ll find your latest bounty payment in the tannery at the Ratholds._

_—T._

Saltzpyre rocks back on his chair, thumbing the scar on his cheek—the proof of a missed bullet.

Mathias Thulmann. Templar of the Silver Hammer, Witch Hunter, brother. It had been six months since he’d purposely fouled his shot—that much had been planned, though for Thulmann to take a continued interest in his former Captain’s endeavors had not been. Perhaps Thulmann saw a higher calling in footing the bill of Saltzpyre’s war against the Rat Men. Perhaps he simply liked subverting his superiors; Saltzpyre couldn’t say, but the bounty hunter found himself giving the Witch Hunter a greater measure of respect than he’d previously considered. Surely Thulmann knew, if caught, the consequences would not curb towards the merciful.

However, while Thulmann’s bounties were common, news about the Bright Order was not, and that Thulmann considered it important to mention in his writing sparked an oft-smothered flame. While it was no small secret that Thyrus Gormann must have smuggled Sienna Fuegonasus back into the College right under the Order’s nose after her immolation of the Great Temple, the Order lacked proof and the College remained veiled in illusion unless its visitors found themselves there for approved purposes. Clearly, the Magister preferred to keep his gates locked up tight. For what reason, then, would Gormann entertain a meeting with Müller—a powerful, yet simple lord from Kislev?

And then there was the problem of Zerndorff—Witch Hunter General South. No doubt Thulmann caught wind of him rooting around the swamps of Sylvania; and no doubt it had not ended well for him—not with the Von Carsteins’ hold upon the land. Mathias had seen Saltzpyre’s escape writ in blood—some deal he had struck with the Counts—and Zerndorff had paid for that exit with his life.

The thought would have sickened the former Witch Hunter had Zerndorff not been so corrupt and eager to climb the Order’s hierarchical ladder without the deeds of Sigmar to accompany his newly-minted status. The Witch Hunter General South would no longer be a problem, and the Order certainly wasn’t _stupid_ enough to go chasing after him.

Pushing himself away from the small desk in his room, he takes Wanda’s advice when he descends the steps to the inn’s tavern, sliding her two silvers across the counter for a brandy neat—from an aged barrel she keeps down in the storeroom that he pays a premium for. She jerks her head to the side towards a man downing a tankard of Bugman’s as if his life depended upon it—well-built, but quickly showing the signs of his age.

“Deal with ‘im before he drinks me outta house an’ home. Can only keep the ale flowin’ for so long on one bloke. Ya know them Kislevites like their brawls, an’ I don’t tolerate any roughhousin’ in my establishment.”

He grunts his acknowledgement when she hands him his glass, clouded over and disappointingly lukewarm before he takes his seat next to the man, nudging him with the side of his glass.

“Might I recommend something stronger? Bugman’s is…poor for drowning your anger.”

The man looks up from his tankard from underneath wisps of greying hair, eyes tired and worn—bags dark underneath his lids. But despite the exhaustion, there was no denying the sense of betrayal that lingered there, just beneath the surface of inebriation.

“And what would a man like you know of drowning his anger?” he asks, wrinkling his nose, tone sharp. Skeptical.

“Absolutely nothing.” Saltzpyre shrugs his shoulders. “But I know well enough those who do… _Herr_ Müller, is it?”

The man raises an eyebrow, considering, before he extends his hand.

“Alright, you have my attention.” Saltzpyre takes a swig from the glass, letting the alcohol burn his throat before pressing it into the other man’s palm. “Aye, that’s my name. Informed of my arrival, were you? Knew I couldn’t trust Wanda with anything proper. And you’d be?”

“My name is of little consequence, but for a price, I deal in men and their…reputations.”

“Ah, a bounty hunter, then. Haven’t hired one of you buggers in decades. No wonder you look like you’ve seen better days. Well, if you’re hoping for easy coin, I fear you’re barking up the wrong tree—unless you can stand up to a nest of Bright Wizards. Asked him for one—just one—to be released into my employ, and that bastard of a Magister refused,” Müller snarls, slamming the glass on the table, brandy sloshing over the rim. “Offered him my coin, my keep, my land—man wouldn’t budge. Some payment for services rendered! Doesn’t he realize how many of his kind I’ve provided lodgings to over the years? The Bright College still has debts they owe to me!”

Saltzpyre raises the brow of his one good eye, feigning mock interest.

“Gormann refused to hire out any Battle Wizard, _Herr_ Müller? I find that difficult to believe.”

Müller waves his hand, scoffing.

“No, not just any Battle Wizard. The one he’s rumored to have hidden in the bowels of the College, of course. But Gormann says she’s a threat to the outside world and that I’m not responsible enough for her ‘care.’” He snorts. “Ha! How dare he. I hired her decades ago, and I know that woman’s calling card better than anyone. That wizard left a mark upon my _soul_ , you see—by Sigmar, the sex was fantastic.” He lets off a sigh—an almost lewd-sounding breath of memory. “Fell for her good and hard before I met my late wife. Shame she left as soon as I proposed to put a ring upon her finger. Didn’t like the idea of being tied down, I suppose. Thought maybe now would be the right time to make her the offer again, what with the way things have been lately, but Gormann disagreed. ‘Not fit for marriage,’ he says.” He punctuates the bitterness in his voice with a roll of his eyes. “Up until recently, I’d heard she’d been arrested and was en route to Ubersreik by some veteran Witch Hunter before being dropped off at Altdorf. Bloody good that did the Order. Temple was in shambles last I saw it.”

Saltzpyre narrows his eyes, disgust curling at the edges of his lips, something unsolicited and black gnawing at his gut.

“You seek to employ Sienna Fuegonasus.”

The man jerks back, gears made sluggish from alcohol turning in his head as they click into place, recognition gracing the words on his tongue.

“You’re the Witch Hunter. You’re Vict—”

The bounty hunter snaps a hand over his mouth before Müller can fully form the words from his his lips, nearly throwing the man off his seat, hissing a threat from between his teeth.

“Take care to mind which names you _speak_ , _Herr_ Müller. While I may not answer to the Order any longer, I can still hang you for heresy.”

His fingers tighten on the crease in the Kislevite’s jaw, tips digging into the skin and grey stubble, and the lord spreads his hands in silent surrender before Saltzpyre shoves him back to crash upon the floor, planting a boot in his sternum before Müller can right himself. The knife point of his steel toe presses just underneath the other man’s Adam’s apple; and from the side of his eye, he can see Wanda step away from the bar, eyes shifting between the two.

And though Victor Saltzpyre considers himself an honorable man, he can taste the lie long before it falls from his tongue.

“I can bring you back your Fire Witch,” Something callous and razor sharp seeps into his tone as he watches the toe of his boot draw a thin bead of blood. “And you can start by calling in your _debts_ to Gormann.”

 

**II. THE BRIGHT COLLEGE**

When Saltzpyre arrives in front of the gates of the Bright College, the air is thick and cloying in his lungs, black tar clinging to the roof of his mouth, reducing him to wet, rasping coughs that are more mucus than air. While the trek from Talabheim in the north down back to Altdorf in the south had been a long one, it had not necessarily been fraught with the hardship the bounty hunter had become accustomed to.

Thulmann’s coin had been sufficient to see him purchase enough to keep food in his mouth, but little else. Müller, however, seemed far too cowed under the former Witch Hunter’s accusation of treason, and had been more than acquiescent in providing Saltzpyre a new mount and a string of accommodations past the Howling Hills, extending further into where the Delb met the edge of the Great Forest. But this, he thinks—as he stands in front of a hazy apparition of the College’s entrance while the scorching heat leeches into his flesh and gnaws at the marrow of his bones—was all that mattered. It seemed that, despite Gormann’s refusal to release Sienna into Müller’s care, the Bright College seemed to respect its debts to the lord enough that it opened its illusionary barriers when Müller requested.

Saltzpyre pulls at the linen cloak slung over his shoulders, detaching it from where it stuck sweat-soaked to his skin before narrowing his eyes at the figure leaning against the iron skewers that separated the College from the outside world—a guardsman that seemed otherwise immune to the scalding heat as he chewed a heavy wad of tobacco.

“Victor Saltzpyre, right?” the guardsman asks when he approaches, spitting a brown mouthful to the side, the bounty hunter flinching in disgust as he raised the visor to his helm.

“You expected my arrival?”

The guardsman laughs.

“You wouldn’t be seein’ the College if we didn’t want ya ta. Patriarch Gormann runs a tight ship, and we keep tabs on the comings and goings of our guests. Leave your falchion and arms at the door, and I’ll have Acolyte Graebner see ta ya in a second.” He spreads his hands as Saltzpyre raises his brows. “Or ya can leave ‘em on, but I can promise ya the Wizards inside won’t take it well. Your funeral if ya want ta be hostile in the home of a couple hundred Battle Wizards.”

The bounty hunter grunts an acknowledgement of bitter agreement as he reached for the buckles on his holster, begrudgingly undoing the leathers and handing his weapons to the guardsman.

“I expect them to be returned in a respectable fashion,” he warns him with no small measure of irritation. “And why doesn’t Gormann see fit to welcome me himself? I should have expected the Bright College has no concept of decent manners.”

“The Patriarch has better things ta do than entertain every guest who seeks his audience save the Emperor. Kept Gelt himself waitin’, once. Man was bloody pissed about it, too. But Graebner will see ya’ right, Sir. Not the first guest he’s guided through here.”

The Acolyte—as he discovers—is a short man near his mid-thirties, hardly younger than Saltzpyre himself, all muscle-y sinew and bright smiles, lacking the aggressive energy of the Battle Wizards the hunter had become accustomed to—red hair dull and pitifully natural-looking, the tattoos on his arms barely visible and motionless against his skin.

“Elmar Graebner, at your service, _Herr_ Saltzpyre,” he says, smiling broadly as he leads the bounty hunter through the gates and into the entrance of the Great Hall. “Patriarch Gormann asked me to show you to your rooms while he’s finishing up his meetings for the day. He’s had to prioritize recently, what with all the requests for Battle Wizards of late. Carroburg’s been struggling, in particular. I’d say half our deployments have been to supporting their ranks.”

Saltzpyre narrows his eyes, taking in the smattering of freckles—the pale skin.

“You’re a bit behind to be just an Acolyte at your age, even for a Bright Witch.”

Graebner chuckles, brushing off the other man’s insult.

“A fair question! Afraid I don’t have much the mind to go further than this, _Herr_ Saltzpyre. Believe me, Maven Fuegonasus tried, but I just lack the appropriate amount of discipline and she wasn’t the type to force the issue. She got me this far, but eventually decided I couldn’t be taken further. Not without hurting myself anyway.” He shrugs. “I know enough for simple spells, but most of my days are spent running errands and seeing guests to their appointments. It’s not such a bad life. Beats being an apprentice, in any case.”

“Fuegonasus was your teacher?” There’s some measure of curiosity there, perhaps more than Saltzpyre intends it, though it was hard to imagine the highly-strung pyromancer mustering up enough patience to train a student. And perhaps, there, was the reason the Acolyte leading him through the banner-clad hall of the College didn’t get very far. “And I suppose that is why you did not have adequate tutelage.”

“By Volans, no, she was high in demand,” he laughs, gesturing to the banners above them. “Maven Fuegonasus is one of our most decorated Battle Wizards—Gormann’s honored her name in this hall multiple times over. But she liked presenting herself as an example of what not to do, and with little patience for fools, she certainly kept us in line. Was far more fond of laps around the College than the whip for punishment, though. But eventually she decided teaching wasn’t for her and that was the end of her tenure.”

“So she abandoned the College,” Saltzpyre surmises, more a statement of fact than a line of inquiry.

“In the most _spectacular_ of ways,” Graebner cackles, leading him down a flight of stone steps where the castle noticeably begins to cool, the Acolyte’s hands skimming over pans of oil and bringing them to life in a flare of open flame. “Oh, you should have heard how she and Patriarch Gormann went at it—right after a meeting with the Emperor, too. Could hear their argument all the way down from the Great Hall. Something about Patriarch Gormann refusing her a spot in the front lines with one of the Knightly Orders—worried she couldn’t control herself if the Captain needed to call her back. Word has it that she threw a couple punches on him, too.” His eyes light up in an almost adolescent glee. “All of us were just waiting for that fight to turn into a good shag on the floor.”

Saltzpyre’s head snaps around fast enough he nearly trips down the stairs, Graebner’s hand on his elbow keeping him steady as he righted himself.

“Crude boy. Is there nothing you Bright Wizards hold sacred?”

“Not saying that’s what happened, _Herr_ Saltzpyre. But it wouldn’t have been out of the question. The Patriarch always favored her, and Maven Fuegonasus had a reputation for getting around, if you catch my meaning. There were a lot of unhappy betters that night. Me? I made out with a solid twenty gold and a nice meal in my belly.” There’s a glance from the side of his eye. “Why? Do you have a vested interest in Maven Fuegonasus’ private life?”

“Don’t be presumptuous; of course not!” the former Witch Hunter snaps, yanking off his helmet in agitation, mopping at his forehead with the back of his forearm as the heat continued to leech at his skin. “The gutter remains your permanent residence.”

“It’s alright, your secret’s safe with me,” he replies jovially, punctuating his sentence with a wink. “In any case, Maven Fuegonasus left in a trail of angry flame directly out the front door. The Patriarch was in a mood for days.” Graebner pushes at a door, waving his hand to illuminate the small fire pit inside. “Your rooms, _Herr_ Saltzpyre.”

The lodgings are larger than the bounty hunter had expected, too used to the cramped confines of the dorms at the Great Temple—the room furnished with a bed of iron, a desk, and a bench should he deign to have guests—a statue of Volans carved into the stone next to the lone glazed window that overlooked the ground floor of the courtyard. Nothing of wood, Saltzpyre notes—nothing that could possibly be accidentally set ablaze—save for the freshly-laundered pillow and blankets set out more as a courtesy for those not in residence at the College than of any real regularity.

Dimly, some part of him is grateful the bed frame is long enough he will not have to resort to contorting himself into some ungodly position to make a comfortable fit.

He turns to the other man—already seeking to leave him to his privacy—and pierces him with his one good eye. The story hardly added up. If Gormann had been so angry with Sienna, then why go through such great lengths to smuggle her deep in the bowels of the Bright College? Bright Wizards were not known to temper their rage—least of all to forgive betrayals.

“And yet Gormann accepted her back?”

“Did no one tell you, _Herr_ Saltzpyre?” Graebner asks, hand on the iron doorknob as he turns back to face the bounty hunter. “Patriarch Gormann considers Maven Fuegonasus the Battle Wizard of legend we’ve waited so long for.”

 

**III. THYRUS GORMANN**

Word of the bounty hunter’s arrival spreads fast throughout the College—much too fast for Saltzpyre’s taste—and he’s met in hushed whispers and glances out of the side of many a pyromancer’s eye, rumors abound that “Sienna Fuegonasus’ Witch Hunter paramour” had sought to take her home. It prickles annoyance low in his chest, yet he minds his tongue, as here he is outmatched and outnumbered. Only a fool would draw the ire of a Battle Wizard in the heart of the Bright College.

His gut is filled with food all too spicy—his tongue still tingling with it an hour later—his wine spiked with magic and his meal had brought all but tears to his eyes as he coughed and sputtered, the wizards lining the table laughing at his plight. It was no doubt the magic users ate well—their food rich and piled high to sate the hunger Aqshy would burn within their stomachs—while their apprentices shoved spiced beans and pork upon their plate, dreaming idly of better fare. It causes acid to rise in his throat later, as he’s following Elmar Graebner up the long flight of steps to Gormann’s tower, and desperately, he wishes simply for the bland, stale bread the Great Temple would offer had he not been a man on the run.

By the time Graebner stops in front of a lead door ringed with torches, just shy of the tower’s apex, the heat in the castle is stifling, and Saltzpyre has stripped himself of his gambeson and armor, wicking away the dense layer of sweat from his brow with the back of his leather gloves. The Acolyte Wizard reaches out to take them, eyebrows raised in amusement, though his tone is serious.

“I do hope this works out well for you, _Herr_ Saltzpyre. Patriarch Gormann has listened to many inquiries and has little patience for fools. Choose your arguments well, lest you provoke his ire. Unless you’re hoping on sharing his bed as well, and going two for two.” Grabner grins and practically dances down the stairs, the muscles in his shoulders quaking with mirth as Saltzpyre shouts after him, the Acolyte’s feet too quick for the snappish remark laden upon the bounty hunter’s tongue.

It leaves him with gritted teeth when he raises his hand to the fortified door in front of him, the metal a blunt pain in his bones when he raps his knuckles against it before it swings open at the second knock. Though Saltzpyre stands just a hair taller than Gormann, the Patriarch’s presence still sets him with unease—commanding and dominating the room.

“Victor Saltzpyre,” he begins in way of greeting, taking a step back and gesturing into the room, the sweeping motion of his hand dimming the large fire pit dug into the center of it into naught but smoldering embers that casts his study into harsh shadows and cooling the air. A courtesy the Patriarch didn’t have to give, Saltzpyre knows, but deigned indulge in anyways. And for all his distrust among wizards, the bounty hunter is grateful for it. “Brother, bounty hunter, and Templar of the Order. Here on favors of one Geron Müller. No doubt you took advantage of my debts to him in order to enter. I’d be a fool if I did not believe you were here for Maven Fuegonasus.”

It’s more direct than Saltzpyre is prepared for, pinned beneath Gormann’s hawkish gaze as he enters the room and the door swings shut behind him on a heavy thud and bolted lock. Yet undeterred, he squares his shoulders and clears his throat.

“Yes. _Herr_ Müller sent me to inquire—”

“Sent you to inquire? Ha!” Gormann laughs, a deep rumbling sound loud enough that Saltzpyre nearly starts, eyes wary as the Magister takes a seat at the iron desk in front of the fire pit, pushing the scrolls on the surface to the side. “Don’t make me laugh, Hunter. We both know you’ve no allegiance to that man. You have your own selfish reasons for seeking audience with me, do you not?” He folds his hands, elbows on the table, shoulders hunched. “Contrary to popular belief, Fuegonasus is not off-limits to taking contracts, but her means to do so are not for the employ of any common Lord who asks. Sienna Fuegonasus is a weapon, not a woman, and it would behoove you to remember her as such.”

“And is that why you denied Müller’s offers?” It’s said with no small measure of repugnance as he remembers the poor excuse of a Kislevite at Wanda’s inn. Indeed, while Saltzpyre had used Geron Müller towards his own ends at gaining entrance into the Bright College, the idea that Gormann had considered to listen to the lord's proposal at all still refused to sit well with him.

“Indeed. _Herr_ Müller still thinks Fuegonasus the wild young woman who tempted him into bed while rendering his enemies to dust. He wants her as a weapon and as a wife, while she is capable of neither. Releasing a Battle Wizard with no self-control into selfish hands would only spell doom for whoever wields that power.”

“So you fear Müller would use that power for his own gain?” Saltzpyre muses, thinking of how the Lord might purge the homes to the west of Kislev in the foothills of the Worlds Edge Mountains, hoping to expand his mercantile empire. Certainly such a plan would allow Müller to keep a monopoly on the trade routes between his own people and the Dwarves that sold their wares there.

“Perhaps, though that would be risky, even for him. It is more he is a man too driven by flights of fancy and does not have the discipline to control Fuegonasus’ temper. Undirected, she could easily destroy the Southern Oblast in a matter of days. He is not the first to ask, and you will most certainly not be the last.”

“And you assume to imply I am here to ask you for the Witch’s hand?” the bounty hunter sneers, lips peeling back to bare his teeth. “You overstep the bounds of decency, Gormann.”

The temperature in the room flares for a single instant, the embers in the fire pit briefly roaring to life in a gout of flame.

“And you overstep _yours_ , Hunter! I will not suffer fools here, and I can assure you the Order will not complain if you go missing,” Gormann replies, his tone lacing a promise more than a threat. But the Magister is quick to smother his anger, the room cooling once more. “You are a guest at this College, and I can easily close my gates to you—favors to _Herr_ Müller or no. I suggest you begin treating your presence here as a privilege and not as a right.”

The outburst has the hairs on Saltzpyre’s neck standing on end—Aqshy pulsing in the air—and he feels a trickle of sweat bead down the line of his throat. He swallows thickly, though does not apologize, his fingers twitching with the knife for a pistol or blade to put himself more at ease—a need for self-defense—yet is greeted with none. Weapons served no purpose here.

“Be that as it may, Fuegonasus is wasted in the dungeon,” he points out, and Gormann threads his fingers through the oiled hair of his copper beard, tattoos writhing over his biceps. “I did not risk my reputation to see her go to waste in the Empire’s time of need.”

Gormann raises his eyebrows, leaning heavily on his elbows, a small tinge of mirth playing at the edges of his lips.

“For the Empire’s time of need, or for yours, _Herr_ Saltzpyre? Not just any Witch Hunter would go against the Great Temple. What is it that truly brings you here seeking Maven Fuegonasus’ employ? I have refused her services to no less than four men. What makes you think I will change my mind for you?”

There is many an argument he can use for that, the bounty hunter thinks. From some measure of responsibility to the fact that, for a solid year, she had fought by his side, and that her fate deserved greater than rotting beneath the College’s face, never to see the light of day again. But Victor Saltzpyre is a spiritual man, who believes nothing is to be done without some greater driving force. He pushes past the uncomfortable feeling pressing into his chest—some part that screams at him to acknowledge it—when he replies:

“Sigmar teaches the greater the difficulty of the task at hand, the greater the blessing He will bestow. Nothing easy is ever deserved.” He raises his chin. “If Sigmar’s hand guides me towards the Bright College, then that is to be my fate.”

“If Sigmar controls your fate,” Gormann begins, pressing his steepled fingers to his chin, “then what is He implying by saddling you with the raving, unstable mess that is Sienna Fuegonasus?’

 

**IV. THE BASEMENT**

Gormann leads him down the long flight of stairs from his tower to the College’s basement—a walk not unlike the one Saltzpyre had performed six months prior—when Sienna Fuegonasus lay dying in the Great Temple’s dungeon. When the then-Witch Hunter could see the condensation of his breath still hanging in the air. However, where the Temple’s dungeons had been bitterly cold and filled with torture implements that would have broken even the most stalwart of men, the College’s dungeons are comfortably warm with no manacles, no iron maidens, nothing that could, possibly, cause one to tremble at the mere sight. No, the Bright College merely uses the dungeon as a holding cell for those too powerful for the outside world, and woe befall anyone who try to release a prisoner tainted by the Warp. But despite the differences, Sienna’s cell still lies at the far end of the dungeon, marked by a heavy lead door shimmering with writhing runes and symbols, and nothing more. There are no locks or keys involved, and the door glows red hot, as if threatening anyone dare touch it.

“I should warn you,” Gormann tells him, pressing his fingertips to the door, steam rising from his flesh, “that she is barely coherent. Her moments of lucidity are fleeting, and she is but a woman driven by the flame. Stay close, lest you meet your end.”

He turns his hand clockwise twice, Saltzpyre notes, then three times counterclockwise before pressing his palm against the door, the runes funneling towards the center of the surface before crawling up his arm to disappear entirely.

It’s when the door swings open, screeching on its hinges, does he first catch sight of her knelt amongst the cobbles, her hands encased in iron shackles bound to the floor—chains short and giving her no quarter should she wish to move. And while her face would be wiped of any expression from the plain prisoner’s mask she would wear, the bounty hunter would recognize that aura anywhere.

_“You’d be much happier if you could feel the Red Winds in the air.”_

He wants to laugh at that memory, back at that tavern in Altdorf where he had so easily fallen into her hands for the night. He remembers a woman high on the winds of her magic, all but languishing in the revelry around her, seemingly uncaring the Great Temple would pass judgement on her the next morn. The woman before him is but a shade of her former self.

Eight fingers and two incomplete stumps play upon the metal container in front of her, the seemingly one sole thing she is allowed in her cell (no bed either, he notes, with some measure of concern. The prisoners here do not sleep—not with the mutation of addiction constantly pulling at their bones), and he recognizes it the tinderbox he had left behind so long ago. She snaps her fingers, watching in almost innocent glee as the charcloth sparked to life before she smothered it with her hands. There’s another snap, another spark, and Victor Saltzpyre sneers, watching with no small measure of disgust as Sienna Fuegonasus has been reduced to nothing but the mind of a child.

“And this is what you allow her to do all day, Patriarch Gormann?” The revulsion is thick upon his tongue, though his gaze never wavers from the hunched form in front of him. “Allow her to play games with flint and cloth to keep her occupied? Is this how you strive to defend the Empire?”

Her head snaps up and their gazes meet. Barely, he can see the hint of color in her eyes, all but smothered by the burning hollows in her skull, and he waits for the recognition—for the sharp retort borne from her tongue.

He’s met with a scream rivaling a banshee’s, instead.

She lunges, the chains pulling her up short, but it does not stop the wall of flame that erupts scant inches from his nose with the swipe of her curled hand, and had it not been for Gormann bodily throwing him backwards in the last instant, no doubt all that would have remained of Victor Saltzpyre would have been a pile of cinders.

He watches the molten cracks form in her gloves. Watches the bleed of lava and the set of her mouth—places that would have been a healthy pink boiling over into the white glow of magma, the black of ash. He can feel her rage rattling in the back of his teeth, bouncing sharp in his skull, and underneath the cacophony of magic, he hears her snarls—something wounded and angry that hurls invectives at him like a woman possessed—a shrieking vexation in a nonsensical mix of Elemental Magick and Classical Old Worlder. And while Victor Saltzpyre has seen many a man possessed by Chaos—has seen men with extra limbs and sprouted tentacles in the pits of their flesh—never has he seen a wizard so far gone.

It’s when he watches the tattoos over her arms break and crack her skin—shedding off a like a snake did a moult, leaving bloody, oozing fissures behind that boil from the heat—does his disgust turn to pity.

“That’s enough, Sienna!”

Gormann keeps a firm hold on the bounty hunter’s wrist—restraining the hunter if he so wished to bolt—extinguishing the wall of flame with a wave of his hand. The action pushes her rage further, and Sienna pulls against her chains, the volume of her wail rising where it threatens to shatter the cell around her. And though he has no affinity for the winds of magic, the amount of Aqshy in the air is thick enough that Saltzpyre near chokes on it—their energies almost palpable—physically seen as the two Wizards pressed their spells against each other until one would potentially give under the strain. It is as the heat in the room reaches a fever pitch does Saltzpyre watch—with an almost stunned manner of fascination—as the iron chains on her wrists begin to snap.

In the blink of an eye, Gormann has them out of the cell, the lead door slamming back into place, runes crawling back upon the surface as her hands hit the expanse on the other side. From the relative safety of the outside, Saltzpyre can hear her fists beating against the door—unsure if she’s screaming or sobbing or _both_ —and as the cool air of the basement hall strikes him, he feels sick, his stomach roiling.

The residual magic churns in his gut, the smell of charred flesh overwhelmingly present in his nostrils, and his knees hit the floor before he can stop himself, retching as he brings up his meal from hours before upon the cobbles. Sweat beads down the line of his jaw as he gags, caught in the assault of bloodied magma in his brain, and he watches as his hands shake until his stomach stops heaving on an empty spasm.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his gloves before stripping them off and throwing them to the floor when Gormann hauls him back to his feet.

“She has been tainted,” Saltzpyre begins, panting. “The Chaos Gods seek the darkness of her _soul_.”

“Indeed,” Gormann replies, drawing his index finger upon the lead door, inscribing more runes upon its surface, the writing beginning to resemble more the scrawl of graffitti than any real magical seal. “Khaine whispers in her ear at night and it makes for poor sleep.”

“Khaine? The Elven God of Battle and Murder?” The information draws his lips to a tight line. “For how long?”

Something weary leeches into Gormann’s gaze as he finally turns from her cell, regarding him with some measure of tiredness. Indeed, how far had Sienna fallen prey to Aqshy’s curse to leave the Patriarch of the Bright College himself drained?

“For as long as the Aqshy has flown through her veins. Our teachings are handed down from those of Teclis—and It is not unheard that we might hear the call of their Gods. Maven Fuegonasus has been particularly attune to his gifts. It was only a matter of a time before her chains would be left undone.”

Something clicks into place, and the former Witch Hunter narrows his eyes.

“And that’s why you didn’t protest during her arrest,” he replies. “You _knew_. You were hoping the Order would burn her.”

“But then you happened,” Gormann responds pointedly. “You sought to give her mercy, and this is what we are left with.”

“And so, no matter who carries out her sentence, it is always to end in her destruction.”

_“So you do not fear it, then?”_

_She snorts._

_“What? My punishment? I’d be a poor excuse of a Battle Wizard if I did not accept my choices always ended in death.”_

The pounding on the door behind them continues, and he imagines fists beaten bloody and raw.

“She is not who she once was. In two years time, Sienna Fuegonasus will be naught but ash,” Gormann tells him, and both men turn to the door of the magically-fortified cell, remnants of her screaming rage still pulling at their ears. “Best pray to your god it is on the battlefield and not in your bed.”

Something cold drops in the pit of Saltzpyre’s stomach when the Magister pins his gaze upon him.

“The only question is, are you responsible enough to bear the weight of seeing her fate through?”

**Author's Note:**

> Additional reading, for those interested in the lore this fic references implicitly or otherwise:
> 
> Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay: Realms of Sorcery. Published by Games Workshop.
> 
> Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter—by C.L. Werner. Published by the Black Library.


End file.
